Well.
He was a poet
a priest
a revolutionary
compañero
and we were right
to be seduced.
He brought us greetings
from his countrypeople
and informed us
with lifted
fist
that they would not
be moved.
All his poems
were eloquent.
I liked
especially
the one
that said
the revolution
must
liberate
the cougars, the trees,
and the lakes;
when he read it
everyone
breathed
relief;
ecology
lives
of all places
in Central
America!
we thought.
And then he read
a poem
about Grenada
and we
smiled
until he began
to describe
the women:
Well. One woman
when she smiled
had shiny black
lips
which reminded him
of black legs
(vaselined, no doubt),
her whole mouth
to the poet
revolutionary
suddenly
a leg
(and one said
What?)
Another one,
duly noted by
the priest,
apparently
barely attentive
at a political
rally
eating
a mango
Another wears
a red dress,
her breasts
(no kidding!)
like coconuts .…
Well. Nobody ever said
supporting other people’s revolutions
wouldn’t make us
ill:
But what a pity
that
the poet
the priest
and the revolution
never seem
to arrive
for the black woman,
herself.
Only for her black lips
or her black leg
does one or the other
arrive;
only for her
devouring mouth
always depicted
in the act
of eating
something colorful
only for her breasts
like coconuts
and her red dress.